


I'm Not Your Saviour

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Angels are dicks with wings, Blood Play, Bottom Dean, Canon Typical Violence, Castiel is kind of clueless, Crowlean - Freeform, Crowley is an asshole, Crowley is more smitten than he realises, Crowley plots, Dean in Hell, Dean is not impressed with angels, Dean is so naive, Demon Dean, Drowley, F/M, Knife Play, Language, M/M, Manipulation, Not the fun kind of dick, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post No Rest For the Wicked, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, The Long Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-16 00:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11242986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Crowley watches. He has time, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm apparently crazy and don't have enough on my plate already, I came up with this. There can never be too much Drowley fic.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Gersemi/media/tumblr_m7ciyuEyHn1rziwwco1_500_zps5avjgqmh.gif.html)

**1.**

Dean Winchester still wears the face of the 29-year-old he was when his contract came due. That’s the beauty of Hell, Crowley supposes. You stay the way you were when you died, forever. There is some truth to the phrase: die young and leave a beautiful corpse.

Not that there ever was much chance of Dean dying of old age to begin with.

But the King of the Crossroads knows he’s not the boy he was back then, hardened by the life of a hunter as he was. Twenty odd years on the rack change even the most resilient mind, and Crowley has enjoyed watching the man fall apart day after day. He knows he ought to be sympathetic. After all, he spent enough time where Dean is now to know exactly what he’s going through. 

If he had even a shred of decency left in him.

He stands by the door with his arms crossed over his chest, in the shadows, knowing Dean is in way too much pain to register anything of what’s going on around him. Not beyond the tip of Alastair’s knife.

Crowley's lip curls in distaste as he watches the Grand Torturer work on the young Winchester, the room echoing with his screams and whimpers, and that’s where the whore finds him. She cocks her head, one eyebrow raised, and comes to stand beside him. There is a manic gleam in her eyes as she watches her teacher. “Lucky the Leprechaun. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and shifts ever so slightly away from her. Just enough to be noticeable. “Whore.”

She snarls at him, her eyes flicking to black. “Don’t forget yourself, Crowley.” She throws a look to her teacher, her snarl turning into an ugly smile. “Remember I have friends in high places.”

He merely gives her an amused little half-smile, remaining silent, until she huffs and walks over to join Alastair at the rack, the two talking quietly.

Crowley watches Dean. The torturers ignore him completely for the moment, and Crowley winces quietly as Dean’s flesh knits itself back together, the sensation still entirely too vivid in his own mind to ignore. The boy is panting through the pain, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared, sweat running down his brow and dripping down the tip of his nose. Crowley prides himself in his ability to appreciate beauty regardless of where he finds it, and Dean Winchester is _magnificent_. His pain and terror only enhance his beauty, Crowley thinks, the angles of his body sharpened with tension, the lines Alastair has drawn in blood seeming like a strange kind of connect the dots on the freckled skin.

Alastair picks up a particularly nasty looking knife, with a serrated edge, and hands it to Meg, her face lighting up like a kid who has just been handed the keys to a toy store. Crowley takes that as his cue to leave, and he pushes himself off of the wall. The door falls closed behind him as Dean starts screaming again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Time passes, and Crowley keeps watching.

Dean is utterly alone in his despair, staring down the barrel of an eternity spent being torn apart, and yet his resolve does not waver in the slightest. Not for a long, long time, anyway.

He’s been down below for 27 years when Crowley first steps out of the shadows. Dean is alone, Alastair having been called away by Lilith, and his head whips up when he hears steps approaching, immediately apprehensive. A frown appears on his face when he sees Crowley.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Crowley gives the boy a little bow, smiling. “Crowley. And you’re Dean Winchester.” He lifts the cup of water he has brought with him. “Thought you might enjoy some of this.”

Dean’s apprehension morphs into clear suspicion, and Crowley’s smile widens ever so slightly. “No, thanks.” The need to say yes is evident in his voice, and Crowley comes closer, lifting the cup higher, closer to his mouth. Dean’s lip twitches. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

Crowley laughs softly. “What would I gain by poisoning you?”

“How should I know? You’re a demon, what do I know about what gets your rocks off?”

“That’s rather crude.”

Dean rolls his eyes, shifting in his bindings. “Yeah, well. Sorry if I offended your sensibilities.” He avoids eye contact, but his gaze keeps flicking back to the cup, and he’s probably not even aware that he licks his lips.

Crowley is very, very aware.

“Okay, so let’s assume it really is just water. Why would you give me water? What do you get out of it?”

Crowley smirks. _Gotcha._

“Oh, probably nothing. But I definitely won’t lose anything.” He cocks an eyebrow and again lifts the cup higher. 

Dean’s throat works, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows dryly, and finally he nods, just a fraction. Crowley leans forward, touching the cup to his lips, tipping it just so, and the sound Dean makes as the water touches his tongue is downright pornographic. He gulps it down, much too quickly, and he chokes, turning his head away and coughing. The bindings cut into his skin as he does so, and Crowley is gripped with the impulse to touch him, to run his hands over the perfection in front of him. Because even as covered in scars from his life as a hunter as Dean is, he is as close to physical perfection as Crowley has ever seen.

He takes a step back, watching silently until Dean gets himself back under control, gasping. His face is flushed, his eyes brimming with tears as he looks first at Crowley, then back to the cup.

“Can I...”

Crowley smiles, lifts the cup to Dean’s lips again. “Slowly now, dear.”

Dean drinks slowly now, much calmer at the realisation that the cup won’t be snatched back, that it really is just water. He drains it, a drop clinging to his lower lip when Crowley lowers the cup, and Dean sucks his lip into his mouth, eyes closed.

It’s probably as close a feeling to pleasure as the boy has experienced in all his time here.

He opens his eyes again, looks at Crowley. Suspicious again, despite the gratitude evident in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

Crowley shrugs. “Why the hell not? Life down here can be dreadfully dull, darling. One has to take his amusement where he can find it.” He smirks, and Dean rolls his eyes again.

“Well, I’m sure glad I can provide you with entertainment.”

Crowley just nods, still smiling, and salutes him with the cup as he turns away, walking towards the door.

“Are you… going to come back?”

Dean’s voice trembles just slightly around the ‘back’, and Crowley's smile widens. He stops by the door, schooling his face into a more neutral expression, and turns to look at the boy over his shoulder.

“Do you want me to?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this yet BUT I surpassed 1000 kudos the other day! So have this in celebration! ^^

**2.**

Three more years pass, years in which Crowley watches carefully, taking the few opportunities where Alastair and his poppet are distracted or otherwise occupied to pay his visits to Dean.

Dean’s resolve still appears iron-clad, and anybody who can’t read people as well as Crowley can would probably assume that he’ll stand by his convictions. But as the years go on, Crowley sees the cracks appearing in Dean’s armour, small ones at first. He sees it in the way the young man seems to brighten infinitesimally when Crowley walks in the door, taking his company as the only good thing that ever happens to him.

And in the end, it’s not Alastair who helps Dean down off the rack and hands him the knife.

It’s Crowley.

He takes great care picking out the people he sets in front of Dean, only the worst ones who truly deserve their little corner of Hell. The murderers, the rapists, the child killers. Dean goes to work with a righteous fury after Crowley has whispered their evil deeds in his ear, and Crowley sits back and enjoys the show. The boy is truly talented, creative in his ideas for making the torture fit the crime.

Crowley also suspects that Dean enjoys having him there, watching, that the bond the demon has fostered over the years has resulted in something much more than just gratefulness at being shown kindness. Dean seeks his approval, and Crowley heaps it upon him freely, telling him what a clever boy he is, how gifted, how _beautiful_.

Dean preens, and works hard at making his craft into an art, far beyond the basic cruelty and sadism Alastair inflicts on his victims. There is a sort of intimacy he imbues into his torture, something that is far above anything Crowley has seen. He supposes it all hinges on the fact that Dean is still very much human, even if Crowley can see the tendrils of darkness spreading across the boy’s soul, of evil, if one wants to use such a basic term.

Crowley can’t wait to see what Dean will become.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Crowley is not watching his boy work for once, having to deal with the Crossroads, when the underling finds him, concern on his pinched face.

“Sir, sorry to bother you, but Lilith has ordered a complete lock-down, and for everybody to ready themselves.”

Crowley looks up from the scrolls scattered across his desk, one eyebrow raised. “Ready for what?”

“An attack, sir. From the Host.”

He sighs, rubs his eyes. “Find Dean Winchester. Tell him to get his ass in here.” Because Crowley knows what the Heavenly Host is coming for.

Crowley has long made it a point to be in the know. He knows about Lilith’s ridiculous plan to free Lucifer, and he plays the loyal subordinate, shares her bed even. She, in return, _trusts_ him, the stupid bitch. It’s almost as if a couple of thousand years as a demon haven’t taught her anything about never trusting anyone, least of all another demon.

Although, if pressed, Crowley would have to admit that he trusts Dean.

Then again, the boy is his creation, so to speak.

As if on cue, the door opens, and in strolls Dean. There is blood splattered on his shirt, his arms below the rolled-up sleeves, on his face. He either doesn’t notice or – and Crowley considers this more likely – doesn’t care. “You sent for me?”

Crowley motions at a chair. “Sit. We have a… situation.” Dean sinks down in the chair, and Crowley sits in the one next to him, taking a moment to just appreciate the boy in front of him before he heaves a sigh. “We’ll have to hide you away for a bit.”

Dean frowns. “Why?”

The demon pours himself a glass of whisky before answering, gesturing at Dean with it. “Someone’s coming for you.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly, and Crowley smiles softly at the multitude of emotions racing across his face. “Sam?”

“Afraid not. Let’s just say, they definitely don’t want what’s best for you.” He leans forward, raises his free hand to Dean’s face, ignoring the blood that is still wet and sticky beneath his fingers. Dean’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. Crowley’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Unlike me.”

Dean looks at him, a blush spreading across his cheeks, and he leans back, out of the other man’s reach. He appears flustered, and Crowley smiles.

“They’ll be looking for you down in the dungeons, so we’ll squirrel you away here until they’ve buggered off again.” He takes a drink from his glass before setting it down on the table between the two chairs, and gets to his feet. “I’ll have to make sure my useless minions don’t give up the game. You wait here.”

The corridors are chaos. Demons are running every which way, and it takes Crowley a while to find Lilith, barking orders. He stops a respectful distance away, waiting until she has finished verbally folding whatever poor fool had wandered into her path in half, then bows.

“Crowley.” She sighs deeply, taking a moment to gather herself. “You’ve been informed?”

He nods. “Yes, my queen.” She isn’t _really_ queen, he – and she – know, but she is shallow enough to enjoy being addressed such. “Do we have any numbers? How many must we expect?”

“Apparently at least a whole garrison. They must be getting rather desperate.”

Crowley offers her his arm, and leads her down a quiet corridor when she accepts, away from prying eyes. “And with good reason. It can’t be a secret to the archangels how important the young Winchester is.”

“Michael will need to get his hands on the boy if they want their apocalypse. We can _not_ let that happen.” She looks weary, her eyes closing as she allows herself a second of not being a leader, and he reaches up, caressing her cheek.

“You won’t, my queen. Everyone can see how strong you are.” He steps closer, and she leans back against the wall, letting him trap her between it and his body. He nuzzles her neck, and she sighs. “You will do the impossible. You will set Lucifer free, and he will make sure all of them know how fierce your love for him was.”

Lilith laughs as she winds her arms around his neck. “You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

The ground shakes beneath them, shouts echoing down the corridors, and Crowley lets go of her. “That will be them.”

She waves him away. “Go. Protect the boy. He is _everything_.”

Crowley bows again before he turns away, smiling to himself. 

If only she knew.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for knife and blood play. Pretty tame, though.

**3.**

Dean is pacing along the line of Crowley's office when he returns. He has wiped most of the blood off of his face and arms with his shirt, leaving it in a crumpled mess on his chair. He’s frowning at Crowley when he steps into the room, closing the door behind him, and Crowley smiles.

“What’s going on out there?”

“Oh, the usual. Chaos, mayhem, destruction.”

“Very funny.”

“I know. I’m a hoot.”

Dean laughs despite himself. “You’re terrible.”

“Tell me about it, sweetheart.”

And at that, Dean blushes again. It’s very becoming. “So, what happens now?”

“Now,” Crowley walks around his desk and pulls open a drawer, picking up a knife and holding it up for Dean to see, “we take precautions. Be a darling and take off your shirt.”

The look of apprehension on Dean’s face is a work of art. “Why?”

“The people coming for you? Not people. _Angels_.” He closes the drawer and walks over to Dean, weighing the knife in his hand. It’s not a big knife, really more of a letter opener, but it’s wickedly sharp. He holds it by the flat sides of the blade carefully and taps the handle against Dean’s chest. “And the quickest way to get rid of those winged bastards is with a little old-fashioned blood magic.”

Dean is still staring at the knife, the dimples in his cheeks more pronounced in his… well, _fear_ , probably, but finally he looks up at Crowley again. “Wait. What? Angels?” Crowley nods, and Dean shakes his head. “There are no angels.”

Crowley laughs. “After all you’ve seen, that’s the one thing you don’t believe in?”

“If there are angels, that would mean there’s a god.” Crowley raises his eyebrows and gives him a meaningful look, and Dean shakes his head. “That can’t be true.”

The demon smiles softly, tapping the knife against Dean’s chest again. “When this has all blown over, I’ll have to take you to see the cage some time.” He tugs at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt. “Now. Off.”

Dean swallows heavily as he takes a step back, and pulls off the shirt with obvious reluctance, wadding it into a tight ball before he drops it on the chair behind him. He’s looking anywhere but at Crowley, looks like he wants to run, and Crowley laughs softly.

“Are you afraid of me, Dean?”

Dean looks at him then, defiance in his eyes, and Crowley's smile widens. “No.”

He reaches up again, touches Dean’s cheek so gently even as he lays the cold steel of the knife flat against his stomach. “Good.”

They just look at each other, until Crowley steps back and motions at the free chair.

“Sit. This is delicate work.”

Dean does his best to stay still, to stay quiet, when Crowley begins to carve the banishing sigil into the tender skin of his chest, and Crowley tells him more about angels in a soft voice, about Lucifer and the archangels and the Fall, and Dean listens to distract himself from the sheer terror coursing through his veins. When Crowley is done, Dean is sweaty and quivering in his chair, and Crowley runs his hand up Dean’s arm and his throat, smiling when Dean moves into his touch.

“That was very good. I’m proud of you.”

Dean’s cheeks colour again, and he looks down at the sigil adorning his skin. “And this will send them away?”

Crowley nods as he takes Dean’s hand, palm up. “If you activate it, yes.” He cuts along the palm, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as Dean hisses, and watches as the blood wells up. “You touch the sigil with this, poof, off they go.”

Dean stares down at him, to where the demon is kneeling between Dean’s spread legs. “Why are you doing this? Fighting them?” He looks at his hand, to where Crowley is still holding it in his. “Why would Hell fight _fucking angels_ just to keep me here?”

Crowley rises and releases his hand before he walks over to the desk and lays the knife on it. Dean’s blood is all over his hands, he realises, and he catches Dean’s eyes as he brings his right to his mouth and licks the blood off his index finger.

Dean’s eyes widen almost comically.

His smile is stained red when he turns back to Dean. “We fight for you because you’re special, darling.” He walks closer, noting with something very much like delight that Dean doesn’t flinch or shrink away from him, and brushes his thumb along the line of Dean’s cheekbone, smearing blood over it. “You’re very special _to me_.”

Dean is still staring at him, his green eyes wide, and his tongue slips out to wet his lips. Crowley follows the movement with his eyes. “Why?”

Crowley laughs softly, his thumb stroking down to Dean’s mouth, along his plump bottom lip, painting it red. Dean lets him. “You truly don’t know your own worth, do you?”

“Good people don’t make deals. They don’t go to Hell.”

“Oh, but they do. All the time. Do you really think I could have kept you as busy as I did if only bad people did?” Dean blinks, tears his gaze away. Licks his lips again. He doesn’t flinch at the taste of blood, and Crowley smirks as he steps back. “And besides, once a soul is down here, we don’t give it up without a fight. Souls are currency, Dean, no different than money. The more you have the better.”

Dean scoffs, shifts in his seat. “So it’s all about the Benjamins, huh?”

Crowley laughs again. “You, my dear, are more of a Woodrow Wilson.”

“I… There’s a note with Woodrow Wilson?”

“There was.” He cocks his head to the side. “The $100,000 note. Worth much, much more these days.”

Dean scoffs again. “Now you’re pulling my leg.”

“Not in the slightest.” The ground shakes again, harder now, and Crowley motions at Dean to get up. “Here they come.”


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

They are side by side when the door is blown off its hinges, the air filling with dust and bits of wood, and a moment later a figure steps into the room. Crowley has to squint to see beyond the human facade but it’s obviously an angel, an angel with bright blue eyes and a trench coat who oozes a sense of righteousness that makes Crowley gag. He shoots a look at Dean, who is staring, wide-eyed, but standing his ground.

The angel tilts his head to the side, looking from Dean to Crowley and back. Crowley hates his guts already. “Are you Dean Winchester?”

“Who he is is none of your business, my feathered friend.”

That same head tilt as he looks at Crowley, eyes narrowing. There are shouts coming from outside, explosions even. “Be quiet, demon. My business is with Dean Winchester only.”

Dean looks at Crowley uncertainly, his hand hovering at his side, dripping blood. Crowley scoffs as he steps in front of him. “You’re in Hell. Any business you might have here, you take it to me first.”

“And who are you that I should have to do that?”

“The King of the Crossroads.” He gives a little bow with a sarcastic smile, even though he has a feeling that the angel won’t get sarcasm.

Maybe the sarcasm didn’t work but the new information definitely hits home as the angel’s face darkens. “So it is your fault that Dean Winchester is down here.”

Dean, bless his heart, steps forward. “Nobody forced me to make a deal. It was my choice.”

The angel’s face softens. “And it was a noble choice. One you wouldn’t have had to make if Jake Talley had not killed your brother for Azazel.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yeah, he’s a regular saint. Can you please piss off now? We were kind of busy.”

Dean can’t entirely hide the smile that appears on his face, and the angel’s frown deepens. “Dean, my name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord, and was sent here to raise you from perdition. You have work to do.”

The slight smile on Dean’s face vanishes as if someone had thrown a switch. His lip curls in a snarl, and his hand twitches at his side. “What kind of work?”

“You need to fight. We are here on God’s command. You have to come with me.”

There is a tense silence where Dean just stares back at the angel. Then he smiles bitterly. “Sorry, Cas, no can do.” Castiel looks baffled, and Crowley feels like dancing with joy. Dean motions at the demon. “I made a deal, I owe a debt.” He looks at his feet, then back up at the angel. “I stand by my word. Can’t say the same for God, or you guys.”

“Dean...” Castiel's frown has deepened even more, unbelievably, and he takes a step towards them. “You cannot be serious.” He motions at the corridor behind him. “This is _Hell_. You cannot fathom the evil that occurs here, the torture...”

“Oh, believe me, I have a _pretty_ good idea of what’s going on here.” He steps around Crowley, towards the angel, and his face has turned terrifying. “I spent 30 years on a rack, alone, with not a single of you feathered dicks swooping in to save me, even though I prayed _every single day_. Every _second_.”

“We tried, Dean, we...”

“I don’t care if you _tried_!” His bleeding hand is curled into a fist, and Castiel takes a step back, confusion clear on his face. “You weren’t _there_! You know who was?” He points back at Crowley. “He was. He was the only one who was kind to me. A _demon_ helped me more than all of you. I didn’t even know you actually _existed_ until 10 minutes ago!” Dean takes a breath, steps back. “I don’t care if God sent you, or fucking Santa Clause. I owe you _nothing_.”

Crowley takes this as his cue to step forward, taking Dean’s hand in his. Castiel looks like he wants to protest again, but Crowley holds up his free hand. “I think the boy made his position clear. Door’s that way.” He lifts up Dean’s hand, the blood running down Dean’s forearm and dripping down at the elbow. “Or you can take the express highway.”

It’s like Castiel only now notices the sigil on Dean’s chest, and he snarls. “He is not who you think he is, Dean. Do not let him fool you...”

Dean opens his hand and looks down at Crowley. “Guess he just picked the highway.” With that, he slaps his hand against his chest, and the room disappears in a blinding light.

When the light is gone again, Castiel is nowhere to be seen, and Dean grins. “I can’t believe that really worked.”

Crowley smiles. “Your trust in me is overwhelming. I’ve been around the block a few times, I actually know what I’m doing.”

Dean flushes the sweetest shade of pink. “That’s not… I mean I didn’t...”

The demon puts a finger to his lips. “I know. I was just teasing you.” He steps back, letting his eyes wander down the line of Dean’s neck and to the bloody mess that is his chest. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

A demon skids to a halt in the doorway, stumbling over the ruins of the door, just as Crowley starts to wipe away the blood on Dean’s arm. She clears her throat, and the disdain at what she’s seeing is obvious on her face. “Sir, Lilith wants to see you.” She sneers. “Immediately.”

Crowley sighs as he hands the cloth to Dean. “Her timing is impeccable, as always.” He waves the demon away, committing her to memory. She’ll be one he’ll have to keep an eye on. “You can wait here. I won’t be long.”

Hell is in turmoil. There has not been an attack of this magnitude in… well, since the Fall, and nobody is quite sure what to do.

He finds Lilith in the throne room, giving orders and looking much more smug than she has any right to. He approaches, bowing deeply. “My queen?”

She grabs his hand and pulls him closer, her voice earnest. “Do you have the boy? Is he safe?”

Crowley nods, smiles. “He sent away the angel who came for him.”

She looks genuinely surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“Apparently he’s not feeling very charitable towards our winged friends. He prayed. They didn’t answer. So he told the one who came to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

Lilith looks delighted. If he didn’t know what an evil bitch she is, he’d probably think it was a beautiful sight. She reaches up, strokes his cheek. He just barely stops himself from grimacing. “You did well, Crowley. Such… devotion to our cause deserves a reward.” Her hand moves down to his tie, taking a hold of it, and she pulls him towards her chambers by it.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

Crowley has not missed the feeling of having been used like this. Not at all. Now, it takes all of his willpower to keep up the facade of the loyalist as he leaves Lilith’s chambers behind and walks back to his office.

He can still feel her hands on him and, while he never particularly enjoyed being with her, he has never experienced this peculiar brand of… disgust.

It’s quite obvious what has changed.

Dean has finished cleaning himself up, and the wounds on his chest are beginning to scab over already. He’s frowning slightly when Crowley enters. “You said you wouldn’t be long.”

Crowley smiles softly. “I’m afraid our beloved queen required rather more of my attention than I had anticipated.”

He can practically see the gears turning in Dean’s head, sees the moment understanding dawns. Dean’s face falls before he forces it into a more neutral expression. “Oh.” He gets up then, walking towards the door. “I’d better get back to work.”

Crowley catches his hand when Dean walks past him, using his momentum to spin him around and trap him against the wall. Dean looks bewildered, and it’s obvious that his first instinct is to fight him, to free himself. Crowley leans forward, into Dean’s space, and lets his breath brush against the boy’s throat. “Do you know why I do what I do?” Dean shakes his head, and Crowley moves closer still, until his lips just touch the shell of Dean’s ear when he speaks. “To keep you safe. I would rather eat glass than willingly share Lilith’s bed but if it keeps you by my side, I’ll do it.”

Dean trembles, his lips parting on a sigh, and Crowley takes a step back. Dean moves with him, and the demon smiles softly.

“Go. There is work waiting for you.” He brushes his knuckles over Dean’s cheek. “I will come see you later.”

And so Dean leaves, cheeks still delightfully pink, his shirts forgotten on the chair, and Crowley watches as he walks down the corridor, the light from the torches painting flickering shadows on Dean’s back. He turns back into his office once Dean has rounded the corner, taking a deep breath.

Dean saying no to that winged bag of self-righteousness, of his own free will, is everything Crowley could have hoped for. Castiel showing up when he did, in the way that he did, was quite literally a God sent. He chuckles at his own joke as he picks up his whisky with one hand, Dean’s t-shirt with the other, on his way to his desk, settling in the chair behind it.

Crowley has been watching the Winchesters long enough to know that Alastair’s usual routine of offering the boy that one way out would never have worked. He’s too good for that, at heart. He would have let Castiel take him away before the angel would have had to utter a complete sentence. But what Crowley offers him… There is no way Dean would have chosen Heaven over him. He is so desperate for approval, so starved for affection, that even the small gestures of kindness Crowley offered him in the beginning were so much more effective than any of Alastair’s many, many kinds of torture.

He studies the shirt in his hand, the blood on it, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lifts it to his nose, breathing deeply.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

To everyone's surprise, the angels make no further attempts at rescue, and so more time passes with Dean becoming ever more adept at torture, and Crowley finds himself in the awkward position of having to play four parties at once.

Lilith still believes him to be loyal, utterly devoted to her foolish plan of setting Lucifer free. Crowley, of course, has absolutely no intention of letting that happen.

Which brings him to the second party: Sam Winchester. The poor boy is still searching for a way to bring back his brother, even as Lilith’s little cunt licker Ruby does her best to fuel his dependency on her. Crowley has the Colt practically hand delivered to Bobby Singer with a bow on top. He knows Bobby will pass the weapon on to Sam. Never hurts to plan ahead.

He also keeps a close eye on the Host, for obvious reasons. The archangels don’t seem to have a follow-up plan beyond making Dean their bitch, and seem to be rather at a loss. Not that that is anything he hasn’t seen before.

And then there’s Dean. 

Dean, who appears to become only more dependent on Crowley. Who accepts every little touch, every kind word the demon directs his way with a gratefulness that would make Crowley sick with guilt if he had a conscience.

As it is, Crowley has no qualms whatsoever, not when Dean reacts so beautifully to his attentions. He takes to calling Dean ‘sweetheart’, and it always results in the boy blushing a most delightful shade of pink. He makes it a point to visit him every day, praising his work, his attention to detail, and Dean comes up with ever more creative methods of torture, clearly trying to impress Crowley.

It works.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I still don’t understand why you bother.”

Crowley looks up from the scroll he has been reading, at Dean who is lounging in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, with his feet up on it. The demon cocks an eyebrow at him. “Bother with what?”

“With me.” Dean doesn’t look at him, studies his fingernails instead.

Crowley smiles and sets down the scroll before he laces his hands together in front of him. “Dean, look at me.”

He does, reluctantly, and Crowley smiles wider.

“Because you, sweetheart, are the most radiant soul that I have seen down here in all my time, and because I find you very, very interesting.” He reaches across his desk, puts his hand on Dean’s ankle and slides it up his leg. Dean’s eyes widen, just a fraction, and Crowley lowers his voice, let’s it go dark and velvety. “In more ways than one.”

Dean’s reaction is a thing of beauty. His ears go pink, and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He can’t look away, and Crowley tilts his head to the side.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean nods slowly. Crowley strokes his leg with his thumb. “Have you been with a man before?”

Now Dean looks away, and the blush spreads across his cheeks as he shakes his head. His nervousness is palpable, almost a corporeal thing between them. Crowley is very aware that the way he has phrased his question implies that Dean will be with a man rather soon, and so is Dean.

Crowley gets to his feet, releasing Dean’s leg, and walks around the desk to stand beside Dean’s chair. The boy is staring at his own hands again, every inch the blushing bride and the complete anti-thesis to what Crowley has heard about his sexual exploits. He reaches down, gently taking hold of Dean’s chin and turning his head so he has to look at him. Dean’s eyes are wide but there’s curiosity in them, and Crowley smiles.

“I shall very much enjoy being your first, then.”

He snaps his fingers, and they disappear.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

As a demon, Crowley doesn’t require sleep, or any of the other tedious necessities of human life. Food, sleep, procreation - vices, to him, and he indulges in them freely. Dean knows this, and so it is no big surprise when they appear in a lavish bedroom, one that is very obviously still in Hell.

Crowley lets go of his chin and walks over to the bar, pulling out a bottle of scotch. “Drink?” Dean nods, and Crowley smiles at the way the boy stares at the bed, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Crowley pours for both of them and stoppers the bottle again before he carries the glasses over to Dean.

Dean accepts the glass gratefully, taking a sip. He can’t meet Crowley's eyes, and Crowley chuckles.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d never had sex before at all.”

Dean half-shrugs, takes another sip of his whisky. Tries to buy himself time. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

Crowley watches him over the rim of his glass, silently. Lets him stew. Finally, Dean tosses back the whisky in one gulp and puts the glass down on the small table by the bed.

“So are we doing this or what?”

The demon takes a drink of his whisky, moves it around in his mouth before swallowing. “Dean, you are under no obligation to have sex with me.” The boy looks stunned at that, and Crowley sets his own glass down next to Dean’s. “I’m not going to force you, you know?”

“But… You’re a demon.”

Crowley has to laugh. He reaches up and pats Dean’s cheek, smiling. “And you, my dear, are a bit of a racist.” Dean splutters in protest, and Crowley puts a finger to his lips to silence him. “Have I ever hurt you? Given you any reason to fear me?”

Dean shakes his head. “No.” He takes a deep breath. “No, you haven’t.”

“Not all demons are alike, just like not all humans are alike. I get no pleasure from hurting people without a reason.” He lets the implication of that particular statement hang in the air between them for a moment before he continues. “I would very much prefer it if you found your way into my bed willingly. Not because you think I expect it of you.”

Dean looks completely at a loss now, even more so when Crowley brushes his knuckles along the line of his jaw. “I...” He swallows dryly, and Crowley tilts his head to the side. Dean licks his lips. “I think I’d like it. That.” His blush darkens, and Crowley chuckles.

“There’s really not much of a difference, darling.” He steps closer, slides his hand to the back of Dean’s neck. “Close your eyes.” Dean does, and Crowley lightly tugs him closer, until he can feel Dean’s breath against his skin.

The kiss is slow, gentle, chaste even. Crowley gives Dean every chance to pull away, but Dean sighs against his lips and tilts his head to give him better access. And when Crowley breaks the kiss, Dean moves with him, eyes still closed and something that looks remarkably like bliss on his face.

Crowley knows that the only physical contact Dean has had for the last 40 years was either the loving caress of one of Alastair’s blades, or the small touches Crowley himself has bestowed upon him. He also knows just how important a part the pleasures of the flesh were of Dean’s life. Food, fighting and fucking – the three Fs Dean indulged in on the regular. And then all of those things had been denied to him for longer than he had been alive in the first place.

Therefore, it comes as no surprise that he would overcome nearly 30 years of deeply ingrained homophobia rather quickly.

Dean stands with that blissed-out look for a moment until finally he opens his eyes. Crowley cocks an eyebrow, and Dean smiles lop-sidedly. “That wasn’t half bad.”  
Crowley barks a laugh. “You know how to flatter a girl.” He trails a finger down Dean’s chest, over his stomach, until he reaches his belt buckle. Dean stiffens slightly, and Crowley taps a fingernail against the buckle. “We can stop any-”

He doesn’t get further when Dean apparently decides, ‘Ah, what the hell’, and grabs Crowley by the lapels of his suit before kissing him with a ferocity that makes the demon go slightly light-headed.

They’re both gasping for breath when they part – though of course technically neither of them needs to breathe. Crowley smirks, reaches up and drags the pad of his thumb over Dean’s lower lip. “That was unexpected.”

“Yeah, well. We either do this or we don’t. No use dancin’ around it.”

“No, I suppose not.” Now it’s Crowley who grabs fistfuls of Dean’s shirt and pulls him down, kissing him, half dragging him towards the bed, and Dean follows as he pulls on Crowley’s tie, working it loose. When Crowley's calves hit the edge of the bed, he turns them around, shoves Dean back onto it, and Dean lands with his thighs spread and his hands beside his head, and Crowley thinks how much like a classical painting he looks, with his rosy cheeks and kiss-swollen lips and those ridiculous good looks.

Crowley lies down next to him, runs his hand over Dean’s chest, his heart racing beneath Crowley's touch. It will never cease to confound him why, exactly, human souls recreate all the absurd functions of the body even down here. It seems needlessly cruel to have the illusion of life when you don’t even possess a body anymore.  
Then again, it makes the torture that more effective.

He kisses Dean again, unhurriedly, as he slides a hand underneath his t-shirt. Dean’s muscles tense under gentle fingertips and the boy groans into Crowley's mouth, and Crowley moves his hand to a nipple, pinching it lightly before he rolls it between his fingertips. Dean actually arches his back then, gasping softly, and Crowley kisses along his jaw and down his throat.

“Fuck, Crowley, I...” Dean’s grabbed a handful of his suit with one hand and the sheets with his other, and Crowley licks up the line of his jugular.

“Yes?”

“You’re overdressed.”

Crowley chuckles against Dean’s throat and slides his hand over the boy’s stomach, unbuckling his belt with one hand. “And so are you.”


End file.
